Alice walks the streets. She feels chills.
into her rabbit coat; it’s worn at the sleeves
but still glows white in the twilight.
Her knee is scraped by the cold that creeps
through the hole of her striped nylons.
Streetlights go up and she’s seeking shelter.
All she needs is a clean quiet place to rest.
All she needs is a place to get better.
A dimebag in her pocket says eat me.
Why do they all talk to her, she wonders:
bottles and mushrooms, red and blue pills—
wait, that’s from a different story.
Alice’s mind and eye, left to their own, wander.
She wants to remember
what she used to see through the looking glass
before it became her reflection.
Mr. H glances up from a game of patience
as the chorus line of flamingoes
slowly dances across the lawn
in the balmy air, sweet with roses.
He sips his bergamot tea.
Upon the polished dinner table,
the packages are lined,
labeled and neatly stacked,
ready for shipment—
humanitarian aid for the next generation
of reality’s refugees.